week-end. Lashmar Mill-House gave him proximity to Agnes Waring; and
every week he made an excuse to walk over to Red Roofs and ask for
tidings of Jack. The news that he was alive seemed better than the
suspense of no news; but the tyranny of love was strange when a man
could pray for the death of a friend. The Warings' atmosphere of
dignified expectancy rebuked him; they made no more pother than if a
single letter had gone astray. The colonel motored daily into Winchester
and sat on his tribunal; Mrs. Waring presided over her bandaging
classes, and Agnes looked after the house. There was no fretting at Red
Roofs; the errant letter would come to hand--or it would not; the
Warings were a military family. Sharing their suspense for the first
time, Eric marvelled at their composure. His own heart quickened its
beat whenever he asked with false solicitude whether Agnes had tried to
get news through the American or Spanish Embassy, the Prisoners-of-War
Clearing-House in Copenhagen or the Vatican. Peace of mind returned a
step nearer each time that she shook her head and murmured, "Yes, we
tried that. It was no good, though." Then his growing security was
checked by a gripe of conscience; he felt like a murderer who stole
furtively into the woods by night to see whether prowling animal or
pursuing man had disturbed the grave. Well, at least another week had
passed. . . . But in a week's time he must undergo the suspense again.
Agnes might come to him, radiant as on that night when she dined with
him, crying "Eric! You remember that cheque? Well, we heard to-day. . . ."
Extravagant tension and violent relief destroyed the serenity required
for good work; but Eric was not dissatisfied with the progress of his
play. Ease and command had grown reassuringly; his psychology was surer,
perhaps because his own psychological experience had been so much
enriched; and his dialogue, losing nothing of its neatness and economy,
had taken on an added verisimilitude. It was too early to judge
dispassionately; but, as Eric made his last corrections and sent a copy
of the script to Manders, he felt a warmer glow of confidence than
either of his first plays had inspired.
It was the end of October before he had finished. The strain of work had
buoyed him up, but it was succeeded by a debilitating reaction, which
impelled him with guilty reluctance to Wimpole Street.
"I'm glad you don't even pretend that you've been following my advice,"
said the doctor with a hint of impatience, as he brought his examination
to an end.
"You know, Gaisford, it's not the least use telling me to do nothing,"
Eric answered jauntily. "I'm not built that way."
"So I've heard before--from others as well. And the others have found
themselves packed off to nursing-homes, which, my dear Eric, are very
tedious institutions. Are you going abroad now?"
"Not at the moment."
"What _are_ you going to do?"
"I'm going back to my office, if I'm still wanted."
Gaisford shrugged his shoulders ruefully.
"You know, Eric, it's a waste of my time and of your money for you to
come to me for advice. You've definitely gone back since I saw you in
the summer."
"I've been working very hard; but I'm rather pleased with the results."
"I hope it's nothing like that novel you shewed me," said the doctor
gloomily.
"I'll send you the script when I get it back from Manders," Eric
promised with a laugh.
2
On his return to official work, Eric found that he could not concentrate
his attention on anything until he knew what Manders thought of "The
Singing-Bird"; sometimes he wondered whether he could ever concentrate
until Barbara had brought his suspense to an end. For three months they
had not met or corresponded.
"Dr. Gaisford says I simply make you worse," she told him. "I mustn't
add that to my other sins. If you want me, I'm there; but I shan't write
to you, and you mustn't write to me. I shall miss you horribly, but your
health's more important than my happiness. We're coming back to London
in the autumn."
A week before her return, the whole Mill-House party motored over to Red
Roofs to dine with the Warings. It was an old promise, and Eric was glad
to avail himself of it to break the continuity of his stilted Sunday
calls. As he dressed, a note was brought him from Colonel Waring, and he
read with some surprise:
"_I trust you are not going to fail us to-night. There is a matter
on which I want your advice and, perhaps, your help._"
Eric tore the note into small pieces and went on with his dressing, only
frowning at his own want of control when he found his hand shaking until
he could hardly part his hair. There was only one subject on which
anybody at Red Roofs could want to consult him; from the fact that
Colonel Waring wrote--and wrote to him--some official action was
pending; otherwise Agnes would have whispered a word to him before
dinner. They had received news that Jack was alive . . . or dead . . .
or they had thought of a new means of getting in touch with him. . . .
Eric kept his surprise to himself and drove silently through two miles
of thicket and clearing to the south end of Lashmar Wood. Beyond a
cordial hand-shake and the smiling statement that he was glad to see
him, Colonel Waring vouchsafed no explanation of his letter. Eric looked
keenly at Agnes and her mother, but their faces and manner betrayed
neither elation nor . . . What else could they betray? he wondered
sinkingly. If Jack were dead, the dinner-party would have been
postponed. They still hoped for him, but their hopes were not hardy
enough to be exposed.
When the men were alone after dinner, Eric's heart missed a beat and he
gripped the arms of his chair. The colonel, after fidgeting with a
decanter and tidying away the remains of two different conversations,
carried his glass to Eric's end of the table and sat beside him, asking
with a smile whether his note had been delivered in time.
"This is between ourselves," he began, leaning back with his legs
stretched out and frowning at the blue flame of a grenade-shaped
cigar-lighter. "We've had news of a kind about Jack." He raised his hand
as Eric tried to speak. "No, my dear boy, that's just what we want to
avoid! Don't congratulate us--_yet_. You see, we've been through the
racket once. . . ."
"You don't know for certain, then?" Eric asked and wondered whether he
was imagining a tremor in his voice.
"No. Let me see, Agnes told you all about the cheque, didn't she? He was
missing in August last year, and the cheque was drawn in October. We now
know that he was alive in December. It appears . . ."
Eric did not hear the next few sentences. Stoically, yet with an
underlying measured jubilance, the old colonel was dragging Jack to
security from the presumption of death two months at a time. Alive in
October, alive in December! Thirteen months ago, eleven months ago. Some
one would have heard of him in February or seen him in April! He was
catching up hand over fist. And one day he would land in England, you
would meet him in the street without warning; as you dawdled through
Berkeley Square, you might see him standing on the door-step of Lord
Crawleigh's house.
"I don't for one moment suppose that this is the only case." Colonel
Waring was commenting.
Eric looked up with an intelligent nod, wondering what he had been told.
Waring, always soldierly and dapper, with a neat care of person which he
had handed on to his children, seemed years fresher and younger
to-night; the liverish tinge of yellow which settled on his face in
cold weather had wholly departed.
"Would you mind giving me the dates again?" said Eric.
"Missing in August; the cheque in October; the row in December. This
fellow Britwell" (Eric wished that he had listened to find out who was
Britwell) "was taken prisoner at the same time, and they were in the
same prisoner's camp. Britwell couldn't say how badly Jack was wounded,
because he'd been in hospital himself until the day before the row came.
Jack, according to the story, was hauled up for calling one of the
guards a 'Schweinhund.' (You know Jack well enough to say if he'd be
likely to fling about abuse of that kind without provocation). His only
defence was that the guard had told him--in German--to do something, and
almost the only German he knew was that word, because they'd shouted it
at him when they found him half-unconscious in his trench and kicked him
back behind the lines, and the women and children had screamed it at
him, in the intervals of spitting in his face at all the stations. And
it was the one word that all the camp guards used to every British
prisoner. Well, he may have been given the opportunity of apologizing or
he may not; if so, he refused it, and the last thing Britwell heard was
that he'd been packed off to solitary confinement in a fortress for nine
months. December '15 . . . to September or October this year. That
explains the cheque, but it doesn't explain why he hasn't written. . . .
Of course, he hasn't had much time. . . ."
The stoicism in Waring's composed face became eclipsed for a moment. The
boy might have died of his wounds or of ill-treatment; he might have
offended a second time and been a second time imprisoned without power
to communicate with his friends; he might have been transferred to
another camp with an unrelaxing ban on all his letters lest he tried to
describe the barbarism of which he had been made a victim. . . .
"I've got that straight so far," said Eric slowly, "Now tell me what I
can do."
If the worst came to the worst, he would at least try to surrender his
claim on Barbara with a good grace.
"Well, it's the old business: we want news," said Waring. "I tried the
War Office as soon as I heard from Britwell, which was a week ago; he's
been transferred to Switzerland as one of the badly wounded cases. You
know what the War Office is; I may be fed with printed forms for months.
. . . Do you know anybody there who can take up the thing personally?"
"If I don't know any one, I can soon _get_ to know the right man."
"We shall be very grateful. Meanwhile don't talk about it--to anybody."
Eric refrained from giving a promise, for he knew that he would have to
tell Barbara the following week. Within three hours of his return to
London he had set half-a-dozen telephone wires humming, and, before
leaving his department, the newly-found freemasonry of the public
service had supplied him with all available information. Officially,
Captain Waring was "missing;" but his name had not been reported from
any German source; unofficially, the War Office had a copy of Major
Britwell's letter to Colonel Waring. Nothing more was known. On the
other hand, a great deal of new information was pouring in since the
convention for the exchange of wounded prisoners. If Captain Waring were
incapacitated and if the official German conscience were not too uneasy,
he might have the luck to be transferred to Switzerland at any moment.
Eric sent a report to Colonel Waring and wrote to Barbara that night for
the first time in three months. "_I want you to know as soon as possible
that Jack was alive last December. That's eleven months ago, and he may
be alive still; the family simply doesn't know. I'll tell you the full
story when we meet._"
In thanking him, she suggested a night for dining together on her
return; and Eric spent three days that were as restless and
insupportable as the three hours before a first night. It would hurt
intolerably if she behaved as a stranger, when they met; almost as
intolerably if she threw herself into his arms--and forced him to
remember what he was threatened with losing.
On the evening before they were to meet, the telephone rang, and
Manders' voice, brisk and cheerful, enquired if Eric was likely to be at
the Thespian Club that night.
"I wanted to talk about this play of yours," he explained. "Well, can
you lunch to-morrow, say, half-past one?"
"Yes. I should like to. What do you think of it, Manders?"
There was a pause.
"It's too long to discuss now."
"You can just say whether you like it or not."
"I'll tell you all about it to-morrow. Cheerio, boy."
Eric was irritated by Manders' uncommunicativeness. The fellow could at
least have said, "First rate!" or "The best thing you've done." "Too
long to discuss now" meant hours of captiousness and months of heroic
surgery. And with his late loss of assurance Eric could not say with
confidence that it _was_ the best thing he had done. . . .
3
When he reached the club next day, Eric found that Manders had arrived
before him and was ordering luncheon for both.
"D'you like the '06 Ruinart, or is it too dry for you?" he asked.
"Nothing's too dry for me," Eric answered, "but I decline to drink
champagne at lunch. I've work to do this afternoon."
His host smiled persuasively and continued to write his bill.
"It'll do you good, boy. Buck you up. Well, how are you? The last time I
was here, some old buffer told me you'd been seedy, but that was right
away back in the summer. What was the matter?"
"I was only a bit run down," Eric answered. "What did you think of the
play?"
Manders gave his bill to a waiter and planted his elbows on the table,
pressing his finger-tips together.
"Well, I read it very carefully," he began. "By the way, before I forget
it, 'The Bomb-Shell's' doing very well on tour."
Eric chewed his lips impatiently. He would gladly hear about "The
Bomb-Shell" later, but he now wanted to pin Manders to a criticism of
"The Singing Bird."
"Well, let's keep the wolf from the door as long as we can."
The subject dismissed, he looked up expectantly and found Manders wholly
absorbed with his oysters, rejecting red pepper for black, shaking a
cautious drop of tabasco vinegar on each, adding a dash of lemon-juice
and, when all else was ready, sipping his champagne with preliminary
caution. The play would have to be cut about, then; perhaps the
actor-manager was disappointed with his own part. . . .
"Well, let's hear all about it," Manders began heartily. "When did you
find time to write it? After you'd got 'The Bomb-Shell' out of the way?"
"Not immediately. I knocked off all my other work and concentrated on
this thing day and night for three months."
"Three months? You're a quick worker. You know, boy, that would have
been a better play if you'd given more time to it."
Manders slipped three oysters into his mouth in rapid succession, and
Eric smiled with indulgent patience. One hard-dying school of critics
always made quick work a synonym for hasty work.
"I managed to crowd about three years into the three months."
"Ah, that means you're writing with your nerves! Now, if I were you, I'd
put the thing aside for six months, clear it out of your head; then,
when you come to it with a fresh mind----"
"You don't like it?" Eric interrupted. "Why not?"
"I don't like it in its present form. I don't suppose you want a
line-by-line criticism. . . . If you look at it in six months' time,
you'll see my objection for yourself."
Eric raised his glass mechanically and was vaguely surprised to find
himself drinking champagne. Then he remembered that champagne had been
ordered to "buck" him "up"; he remembered, too, Manders' solicitude for
his health, the enquiries when the play had been written and how long he
had taken to write it, the evasion and silence the night before on the
telephone and again at the beginning of luncheon, when he tried to
extract a frank opinion. . . . Manders, then, was rejecting the play . . .
and trying to be considerate. . . .
"We don't mince matters at rehearsal," he said with a breathless laugh.
"You think the play's hopeless?"
Manders looked relieved, but he had known so many disappointments
himself and seen others so often crushed by them that his brown, monkey
eyes were full of pity.
"It's no use at all. In its present form or any other. If it had been
any one but you, I wouldn't have read two pages of it. You may as well
take the whole of your physic, boy; you've got to stop writing for the
present, you've lost your sense of the theatre, you're forgetting all
the tricks you ever learned. D'you know, when I read that thing, I
thought for a moment that you were trying to palm off some old thing
that you'd written when you were an undergrad?"
For a moment Eric lost his sense of distance; the long coffee-room was
full of shouting and discordant laughter; a waiter, who seemed quite
near, asked in a remote voice whether he might take the black pepper. . . .
Eric gripped the edge of the table, praying that he might not
disgrace himself.
"I wonder--_why_," he murmured faintly.
Manders shrugged his shoulders and filled both glasses encouragingly.
"It often happens. Graham Lever had three plays running in London at the
same time; then he chucked romantic comedy and tried to write a
revolt-of-the-younger-generation problem play. . . ." Manders omitted to
add that Lever had never had another play staged, but Eric's ten years
of dramatic criticism enabled him to fill the gap. "George Sharpe failed
again and again for eight years; he had one success and then failed for
three. It would be hard to think of a man who never loses his touch.
Partly it's the author and partly it's the audience; they get tired . . .
and, when one kind of play succeeds, all the other men unconsciously
imitate, and the managers can only see money in that one kind, so that
the public gets sated. With you . . ." He paused to tear his bread into
lumps and throw it into his soup. "You probably want some fresh air.
You've been living in the theatre too much, you've forgotten what real
people are like. If you brought that play down and read it to the
company----"
His aposiopesis suggested that there would be uproar and danger to life.
"What had I better do?" Eric asked weakly.
"Frankly? Well, scrap your 'Singing Bird' and throw your pen behind the
fire. Don't try to write for six months. After that, anything you like
to send me . . . I hope you can eat this, by the way?"
Eric found that a sole, half-hidden by mussels, had been placed before
him. Manders had taken trouble about the luncheon; he was a good fellow
and had tried to soften the blow; throughout the time that they had
worked together he had been patient and very human; he was trying to
part now on a pleasant note. "Anything you like to send me . . ." It
would certainly be read; for a time he would read it himself--the next
three failures, say. And then . . . Eric wondered whether he would be
able to go back to journalism. The two successful plays would keep him
from starving, but he must make a livelihood again . . . and count every
shilling before he spent it. The flat must go. . . .
The long triumphal progress which he had enjoyed and disdained rose up
in accusing mockery. Here, then, was the end of that life-long dream of
domination. For a time Lady Poynter would invite him to her house and
ask when the next play was coming out, but her nature and the
requirements of her sham-intellectual life demanded that she should drop
him when he no longer had any tricks to display. Young Forbes Standish
or Carlton Haig--"most promising young playwrights"--would take his
place. Perhaps some one like George Oakleigh, who liked him personally,
would ask what had become of him; and Lady Poynter would answer easily:
"I haven't seen him for a long time. I must find out whether he's in
London and get him to lunch one day." And then young Forbes Standish
would begin to criticize "The Bomb-Shell" or the "Divorce" with bland
patronage. And every one at the Thespian would be tactful and
considerate.
"I feel as if I should never be able to write anything again," Eric
sighed. "This is the second--facer I've had. There was a novel I
started. . . . I'm used up, Manders."
"Take a holiday and don't talk rot!"
Conversation languished through the rest of the meal, and Eric hurried
back to his office, pretending that he could not spare time for coffee
or a liqueur. It was an office which he had once hated, because it
absorbed time and strength which he needed for his own work; he had
treated it cavalierly, from time to time writing letters of resignation
and throwing them into a drawer. As he settled to the familiar table in
the crowded, ill-lit room, he wondered whether he would be of the lucky
number for whom the Government service would find openings at the end of
the war. He had yet to prove that he could earn a living again as a
journalist; and efficiency mattered little in a civil servant, for, if
his work were good, some one else would get the credit, and, if it were
bad, it would be undiscovered. . . .
A drawling voice from the War Office broke in upon his musings. Had not
Mr. Lane been making enquiries about a Captain Waring? His name was on
the next list of prisoners to be transferred to Switzerland; his
relations would be informed officially.
Eric telephoned at once to Colonel Waring and Barbara. As he dressed for
dinner, Agnes arrived in a laden car with both her parents, clamorous
for help in securing passports. They were staying at the Charing Cross
Hotel with their boxes packed, waiting for further news, and the
radiance in their eyes scorched him. Barbara had received the news
almost without comment; he wondered what manner she would shew him;
perhaps this was the last time that they would ever meet. . . .
"I'm not _sure_ that her ladyship's dressed yet. . . . If you wouldn't
mind waiting, sir. . . . I _have_ taken the paper into her ladyship's
room. . . . I hope you've been keeping well, sir. . . .?"
Eric started in physical pain at the familiar friendliness of the old
butler. The little confidences, introduced with a deprecatory cough,
floated down from a height one stair above him. Barbara's room, as ever,
was in chaos; her kitten, roused by his entrance, stretched herself and
arched her back. Then the other door opened, and Barbara hurried in. Her
arms were soft and cool as ever against his cheeks, and he caught a
well-remembered breath of carnations as her head bent low on to his
breast. He held her close; but his pressure suddenly relaxed, and he
stepped back.
"Don't you like kissing me any more?" she asked. "I've been hungry for
you all these months!"
"I was thinking what it would be like if you suddenly took yourself out
of my life," said Eric.
"Darling, why must you spoil the present by dragging in the future?"
"I can't think of anything else."
Barbara took his arm and led him to a chair.
"I wish you didn't look so frightfully ill," she whispered. "Have you
been missing me? My dear, what a mess I seem to have made of our lives!
Sit down! Let me take care of you! Let me do what I can for you,
darling! It isn't much!"
"I don't think I'd better stay, Babs," said Eric with nervous
indecision. "I'm bad company; I shall only get on your nerves and upset
you."
The girl shook her head sadly.
"I'm not so happy that there's much to spoil. Eric, I sometimes think
you don't quite understand. I'm not miserable because I want Jack and
can't get him. I don't know whether I want him or not; that's what
makes the suspense such a hell. . . . There was a time when I wasn't
sure whether I was in love with him or not. . . . He was stronger that I
was, he could have done anything with me. If I hadn't felt his power, I
should have paid no attention to him, he couldn't have hurt me, I
shouldn't have wanted to punish him. Is that love? I suppose it's one
form. . . . When I see him . . . if he says he wants me . . . I don't
know what I shall feel like. Love . . . ordinary love. . . . There's
never been anything to equal my love for you. . . . So it hasn't been
easy for me, has it? Ever since I met you, I've pined to know what _was_
going to happen to me."
Eric looked away and was silent for several moments. She had made a
romance of her oath to Jack and had played dramatically with alternate
ecstasy and despair, seeing herself as a woman cursed by God. She made a
romance of her twin loves and dual obligations, seeing herself as a
woman fated to blight all who loved her. She lived for "situations" and
conflicts, experimenting in emotion; already a garment of romance had
been woven round Jack.
"I came to tell you that I'd seen the Warings to-day," Eric said at
length. "They're off to Switzerland as soon as they can get their
passports. If you'd care . . . I mean, I can write a letter from my
office and enclose anything; it wouldn't be censored then."
Barbara bent her head until her trembling lips were hidden from him.
"It's like you to think of that! Nobody's ever loved any one as you love
me! But I won't, Eric. If _he_ wants me . . ."
Eric stared at the fire, kicking one heel against the other toe. If she
was in agony of spirit, he could have sworn that she was enjoying the
agony.
"Yes, I love you more than any one else ever has. . . . It gives you
enormous gratification. . . . But I wonder if you think it's anything
more than your own cleverness. I suppose you have some love for me. . . .
But, if he wants you, I shall drop out of your life. . . . I was
happy, I didn't need you! You wrapped yourself round my life until you
saw that I couldn't do without you, and then--_if--he--wants you_! What
have you left for me?"
"Is it nothing to have brought me happiness?" she asked; but his
deep-toned reproach, unrehearsed, unstudied and faltering, had broken
through her surface emotions and shattered her self-absorption. "Eric,
I'm not every one! Your work----"